Musée des beaux arts
by CLL-18
Summary: A mysterious stranger saves Elizabeth from drowning just off of Spoon Island, not long, coincidentally, before she meets Dr. Ewan Keenan. But what dark secrets loom in the sexy Australian/psychiatrist/blues afficianado/painter's untold past?
1. prologue

He heard the splash before he saw the pale legs disappear below the icy surf. Had he taken the time to ponder, he would've marveled at the unfolding scene's uncanny resemblance to Pieter Bruegel's _Landscape with the Fall of Icarus_; but as the figure continued to struggle – at least until the churning current became too much and engulfed him or her whole – it appeared that his ever-wandering artist's eye would have to be put to rest. Sans hesitation or regard for the host of dangers that could ensue, he dove into the waves that roared, black with anger. Cutting gracefully through the turbulent seas with calculated, powerful strokes, he rapidly approached his mark. Gathering the lifeless form into his arms, he quickly gleaned that his rescue was no Icarus. Even in such a state, limp and lifeless on the wet sand, Ewan found her absolutely captivating. Thoroughly intrigued by this bewitching water nymph, he transferred the life that bloomed from his chest past her shapely, yet alarmingly translucent lips, sighing in relief as she rolled over and coughed up the excess sea water that had nearly claimed her life. Her tantalizing chest began to rise and fall beneath the clingy material of her drenched dress as she greedily gulped down the oxygen that her lungs craved. Drawing in breath after breath, the color slowly began to return to her pale complexion. Yet her eyes remained closed, shielding her soul from his hungry gaze. He brushed the dark strands of hair away from her face, tracing his long fingers down her temple, the curve of her neck and shoulders, the silky surface of her exposed arms, ending their journey at the slight slope of her hips. He reasoned that he was checking for bumps and scrapes, of which there were none, as he committed her image to memory. He wanted nothing more than to carry her off into the night with him, watching her until she came to. She would undoubtedly be confused about her surroundings, but would thank him profusely for saving her life. They would seek comfort around the fire, drink tea, and discuss art and music and literature. Together, they would live in seclusion, away from the harsh eyes of the world and society. She would be the cure for his loneliness.

His reverie was swiftly interrupted by a fumbling set of footsteps approaching from the distance. Although he had no wish to leave her, he could not risk being detected by the outside world just yet.

From his perch, he saw to it that she was being carried to safety, albeit awkwardly, by a rather gangly, dark haired young man. Knowing that his thoughts would be racing a lot more than usual that night, he retreated back to his quarters. Peeling off his wet dress shirt and jeans, he found himself thankful for the restlessness that provoked the late night promenade that he had taken earlier. He shuddered to think what might have happened had he not been there to pull her out of the water. Hopefully, she was safe and warm in a bed at General Hospital and hadn't been completely overtaken by hypothermia.

While he really hoped that they could meet again, he knew that he had to put an end to his borderline obsessive thoughts about this woman. He didn't know her in the slightest. In fact, this instantaneous attraction should have proved to be more unsettling. She would only serve as an unnecessary distraction from his mission. These were not the kind of thoughts that one had about someone that they just met – well, sort of met, and he had worked so hard to create a sense of normalcy for himself. He glanced over at the clock and saw that it was nearly two in the morning. He really needed to sleep; he had to put his best foot forward for his interview the following morning. Shortly afterwards, his eyelids finally met, his dreams consisting of the ocean and pale skin.


	2. chapter 1

_**A/N: Just another disgruntled Liason fan. I really wish GH would give Elizabeth more screen time. In the meantime, I've rewritten the first chapter and hopefully they'll give Elizabeth and Ewan a decent storyline while Jason gets his act together. Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy! Please review!**_

"_You will never 'find' time for anything. If you want time, you must make it." _It was fitting that Elizabeth found herself mulling over a Charles Bruxton quote as she basked in the earthy aromas of oils, watercolors, acrylics, and kilned clay that wafted about her like cloudless smoke. In the aftermath of the mess that she had made of her life, the young mother found comfort in the fact that she had been able to return to something that was so natural to her; a part of her that she thought had been long put to rest after the feverish flames behind the indigo of a doe-eyed bohemian had been repeatedly stamped out by the ice cold torrent's of life's white-crested waves. But her love of art had remained entwined in every fiber of her being – it shone through her love for her sons, the way she cared for her patients, and her fierce loyalty to those that she cared about. Although that loyalty had been sorely tested when grief and desperation reared their ugly heads, she now knew that her entire view of the world would always be different because she didn't just see with the irises, pupils, retinas, and lenses that she had been born with – she saw life through her artist's eyes.

Moving from one painting to the next, Elizabeth marveled at how all it took was one person to put this all into perspective: one kind, insightful, devastatingly handsome, mysterious… lying, manipulative… she shook her head, dispelling the darkening thoughts from her mind, determined to enjoy such a rare evening alone, as well as the waterscapes mounted before her. After all, it wasn't often that she got to trade in her scrubs, sensible burlap TOM's and other mommy-approved garb for scalloped double layer chiffon and suede platforms. Sighing contentedly and humming quietly to herself, Elizabeth stilled in front of one particular painting. It was a replica, of that she was certain since the original was tucked neatly away at a stately museum in Belgium, however the imagery and the story it conveyed caught her attention in a way that not many of the other pieces had.

"It's fitting that you would be enamored by this particular tableau," an all too familiar voice sounded behind her. She could visualize the smirk long before she turned to face him.

"More cryptic psycho-babble, Dr. Keenan?"

He chuckled mirthlessly in response. "I was merely making an observation."

"Nothing is a mere observation if it's coming from you," Elizabeth stated. "I know very little about you," she sighed, bitterness lacing her tone. "But I do know that much."

"You look lovely, Elizabeth," he rasped in that husky accent of his. "How's that for a mere observation?" he cajoled.

Elizabeth tinged pink, partly in embarrassment at the compliment he had just given her, and mostly, or so she told herself, at his refined ability to spin her words. "Your avoidance skills surrounding anything that pertains to your life never ceases to amaze me."

"My life is dreadfully boring," he said coolly. "You shouldn't care so much."

"Yeah, well, neither should you," she retorted.

"I'm your psychiatrist. It's my job to care."

"What are you even doing here anyway?" Elizabeth inquired, realizing that they weren't at work, or at Kelly's for that matter. "Following me again?"

"Again would have to imply that there was a first offence – " he began.

"Your 'guest privileges' at General Hospital, my _house_ on Christmas Eve, all of those times at Kelly's…although Cameron seems to be rather receptive when it comes to you…what's so funny?"

"While I find your overactive imagination to be quite endearing, I'm afraid Port Charles isn't that big a town. Can't a fellow artist enjoy the only exhibit in the area?" he countered after his laughter had abated. "Even if said exhibit consists of mediocre replicas of masterfully obscure paintings."

"Hey, now," Elizabeth said in a disapproving tone. "This may not be Pieter Bruegel's original masterpiece, but this is a brilliant rendition of a beautiful story."

Ewan smiled at her praise. "You're familiar with the myth of Icarus, then?"

"Icarus was Daedalus' son," she began. "He was trying to escape from Crete, so his father made him wings made of feathers and wax on the one condition that he wouldn't fly too close to the sun." After a brief pause, Elizabeth continued with a faraway look in her eyes. "He didn't listen. He didn't listen, and the sun melted straight through the wax. All of his father's hard work was ruined. And then he drowned." Elizabeth's mind drifted, creating multiple allusions – all of them forlorn.

"Are you alright?" Ewan asked, snapping her back into reality.

Elizabeth knew that he would see straight through her standard one word answer. She opted for the truth. "I'm drawing way too many parallels between that story and my life. Looks like your psycho-babble has rubbed off on me," she shrugged.

"But you didn't drown," he assured her, his words charged with a physiological meaning just as much as an emotional and psychological state. "You're still here, aren't you?"

"Because someone saved me," she whispered, looking at him intently, her words carrying the same double meaning that his did. Only she did not yet realize that she was staring her mysterious savior square in the face. She averted her gaze as she grew restless beneath his penetrating one. "This really is a beautiful painting," she muses, turning her attention back to the tableau. "And although this is based off _Landscape on the Fall of Icarus_, you can tell that the artist tried really hard to make this his or her own."

"How so?" Ewan goaded, eager to see where her theory would lead.

"The perspective is off," she began. "Well, maybe 'off' isn't the right word, but different."

"And you find this difference in perspective to be significant?" Ewan asked.

"Absolutely," she agreed. "In the original, the whole scene is captured from above. As if it were being witnessed and retold by an objective observer, an apathetic observer. An omniscient deity even, if you will. But in this one, the whole scenario is painted dead on. Almost like the artist were standing right there at the shore, watching Icarus fall. It's almost like we're right there too. Very interactive," she concurred. "I wonder who painted this," she began, peering for a telltale black scribble at the bottom corner.

"It's unsigned," Ewan stated.

"Hmm, what a shame," Elizabeth hummed.


	3. chapter 2

"_On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points." – Virginia Wolf_

Pouring over file after file on his desk, Ewan found himself distracted for the umpteenth time that day – it was barely noon. Try as he might to steer his rampant mind elsewhere, he could feel himself succumbing to a lust induced haze of cornflower eyes and hair the color of finely spun chocolate silk. The ten foot mortared fortress that he had carefully constructed about him was slowly cracking with each sunlit smile, each bell-like laugh, and each paint encrusted finger nail. He was slipping, and he needed to regain control before she swallowed him whole. Elizabeth was sharp and observant; too observant. He didn't know how much longer he could placate her with cryptic conceptions and hollow philosophies. He didn't know how much more energy he could channel into fielding harmless questions that most normal individuals would be happy to indulge. Most importantly, he didn't know if he could be selfless enough to continue to deny her.

A knock sounded at the door. He didn't even need to look up to know who it was. "Come in."

"Hey, there," she smiled, poking her head past the door.

"What brings you here?" he asked, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from lifting as well.

"I was just taking a break for lunch and figured you could use some company," she explained.

"Taking pity on a lonely man?" Ewan asked bitterness lacing his otherwise cautious tone.

"I wasn't being entirely selfless," Elizabeth admitted. "I needed company too. Now, drop the dour Dale act. I brought enough to share."

"It smells heavenly," he admitted as he watched her uncover the Tupperware.

"Nothing fancy," she shrugged. "But spaghetti and marinara sauce is about the only wholesome thing that both Cameron and Emma will agree to eat," she laughed, shaking her head.

"Babysitting for Patrick again?" Ewan asked.

"No, they just came over for dinner last night. _Someone_ has to teach Patrick how to cook food that doesn't consist of a bowl of milk and cereal."

Ewan chuckled. "You're a good friend. Robin was lucky to have had you."

"I do what I can," she shrugged, ducking her head down.

Ewan smiled at her bashfulness. "Tell Patrick if it's any consolation that I am boorishly dreadful in the kitchen. I'd probably burn boiling water if I were left to it."

"While I'm sure that's not true, I don't know whether or not I should believe you," Elizabeth debated, recovering from her own bout of laughter. "See that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"What?" Ewan smiled.

"Sharing things about yourself," Elizabeth teased.

Ewan's smile vanished. "Elizabeth –"

"I was just teasing," she winced. "I'm sorry. We can just forget that I said that."

"Well I can't," Ewan said. "Elizabeth. I so enjoy your company and your kindness. But this," he sighed, motioning between the two of them, "whatever this is cannot happen."

"What do you mean 'whatever this is'?" Elizabeth huffed. "Ewan, we're friends. It's perfectly normal for friends to have lunch together, especially when said friends happen to work in the same building. It's also perfectly normal for friends to want to know about what happens in each other's lives." Ewan frowned, acknowledging the truth behind her words as she continued. "I mean, it's not like you're some wanted fugitive. But even if you were, it'd be totally okay seeing as I've had more experience with that than I care to admit."

"I don't think working in a crowded hospital, in direct contact with patients and dozens of doctors, nurses, lab technicians, and other professionals, would bode well for me if I were in fact a fugitive," Ewan chuckled.

"Spiderman, then?" she jabbed. "Moody psychiatrist by day, and a mighty crime fighter by night."

"I don't believe myself to be noble enough to fulfill such a role," Ewan said, shaking his head. "Any other theories?" he asked, eyes dancing.

"None that I can pull off the top of my head," she laughed. "The point is, whether you were a fugitive, a superhero, or a vampire even, I would accept you all the same; just as you've done for me. Whatever demons living on in your past that you've yet to put to rest are just that – they're in the past. But in the meantime, I suppose I can table my burning curiosity and respect your desire for privacy."

"Elizabeth, you are quite possibly the most intriguing person I've had the pleasure to have met," Ewan smiled. "I have no idea where you come up with half of the scenarios that run rampant in that wild imagination of yours."

"It comes with being a mommy, I suppose," she shrugged. "So what do you say? Friends?"

Her earnest words were a balm to his lonely, callused soul. He could not keep himself from engulfing the delicate ivory hand she had offered him with his much larger one. "Friends."

**Please review :)**


	4. chapter 3

Stalking through the voluminous shelves that towered about him, Ewan found himself comforted by the musky smell of old wood and worn paper, weathered over the years by edacious eyes and fomented fingers. He continued his trek, absentmindedly trailing his long digits along the thin layer of dust that hugged the book jackets, until a familiar mop of brown curly hair caught his eye. "Hey buddy, where's your mum?"

"She just finished her yo…her yuh, uhm, her yogurt class," Cameron explained. "She went to go find a book."

"I had my _yoga _class this morning, silly," she teased causing the young boy to giggle. Elizabeth deposited the stack of books on the table. "Good morning, Ewan! What brings you here?"

"I would ask you the same thing, but Cameron did a pretty good job at explaining," Ewan smiled, failing to ignore the way her yoga pants clung to her like a second skin.

"They have free yoga classes here on Saturday mornings. I try to come when I can. It's a good way to relax, but it's a lot more physically demanding than it looks," Elizabeth explained.

"Hmm, perhaps I should give it a go sometime," Ewan hummed, all the while thinking of the various way he could peel the black fabric off of her silky skin while she bent into a matsyasana.

"You should! It'd be fun," she smiled.

"Where's Aiden?" Ewan asked, changing the subject.

"Aiden got to sleep in at Grandma's, but Cameron had to come to the library with me this morning because he has a project to work on for school."

"Momma said she doesn't know anything about Chicago," Cameron shrugged, flipping through a picture book of the big city. "And the li-berry is the best place to come look up information about things you don't know – even better than the computer!"

Ewan chuckled, wondering just how exactly Elizabeth managed to convince Cameron of that fact. "Well, you're in luck! I used to live in Chicago," he began. "Maybe I could give you a hand?"

"You used to live _here_?" Cameron exclaimed, fawning over the tall buildings in the picture.

"I did," Ewan concurred, smiling at Cameron's enthusiasm. "Over here is Michigan Avenue. And over there, where all the hot air balloons are, that's Navy Pier."

"Wow!" Cameron crooned, eyes wide. "Momma, can Ewan help me with my project? He knows _everything_ about Chicago!"

"I'm sure Ewan is very busy, Cameron," Elizabeth began.

"Not at all," Ewan interrupted. "It would be my pleasure," he grinned.

"Please, momma?" Cameron frowned.

"I suppose so," Elizabeth relented. "If you need me, I'll be over by the classics."

"Thank you, momma," Cameron beamed.

"Behave," Elizabeth warned, kissing his chubby little cheek.

"Do all the people in Chicago talk funny like you do?" Elizabeth heard him ask Ewan as she turned to walk away.

"Not exactly…"

* * *

About a hundred pages deep into Victor Hugo's _Notre Dame de Paris_, Elizabeth is suddenly interrupted by fifty pounds of dark hair and giggles being flung into her lap. "Oof!"

"Momma, momma!" Cameron exclaimed. "We finished my project!"

"I would have dissuaded him, but this one's hard to keep up with," Ewan smiled.

"Sweetie, you can't just jump all over mommy like that anymore. You're not as little as you used to be," Elizabeth chided.

"Sorry, momma. I _am _getting big!"

"_So _big," Elizabeth laughed. "And strong too!"

"Momma," Cameron began. "Will I be as big as Ewan someday?"

"Someday, sweetie," Elizabeth said, kissing his cheek. "But no matter how big you get, you'll always be my baby."

"I'm not a baby," Cameron huffed, wiping his face. "Aiden's a baby!"

"You ready to show your mum your poster?" Ewan chuckled, still laughing at the young boy's previous statement.

Cameron scrambled out of Elizabeth's lap and helped Ewan spread the poster open on the table in front of them.

"Wow!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "This looks awesome! You boys must've worked so hard!"

"I helped Ewan draw, even though he's a really good drawer. Just like you, momma!" Cameron rambled, "But Ewan helped me cut, because I'm not a good cutter."

Elizabeth grinned at the hand-drawn skyscrapers, hot air balloons, and the muddled captions underneath penned by none other than her messy seven-year-old. They even got Wrigley Field and the giant silver bean at Millennium Park in there.

"Your teacher is going to be so proud, buddy," Elizabeth cooed. "Did you say thank you to Dr. Keenan?"

"Thank you, Ewan!" Cameron cried, hugging him fiercely.

"You're welcome, Cameron," Ewan smiled, ruffling his hair.

"Alright Cam, make sure you get all your stuff together so we can go pick up your little brother," Elizabeth instructed.

"I suppose I'll see you at work, then?" Ewan inquired.

"Yeah," Elizabeth nodded, nervously fingering her ponytail. "And Ewan, before you leave, I'd like to say thank you. I can't remember the last time I've been able to curl up with a book that wasn't _Thomas the Tank Engine_ or _Bob the Builder _in the middle of the day."

"It was nothing," Ewan shrugged.

"Please don't discredit yourself," Elizabeth said seriously. "You've been such a huge help to Cameron and I. Not just today, either. He's really opened up to you, and in turn, he's starting to open up to me again." She wipes away a tear. "God, I don't know why I'm being so emotional!"

"It's perfectly understandable," he assures.

"Having to explain to my six-year-old son that his little brother was dead was so heartbreaking. It was so sad to hear him wake up every morning asking for Jake. And then when Lucky left, God, he was just so angry," Elizabeth sighed. "I didn't know how to get through to him. You gave me my sweet boy back."

"I'm happy to have been able to be help you," Ewan nods.

"I'm so glad to have you in my life, Ewan. You're such a great friend," Elizabeth gushes, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

"Yes, friends," he mumbles into her fragrant hair. Feeling the contours of her body pressed up deliciously against his through the thin fabric of her tank top and yoga pants, he wishes he had never made such an asinine request.

* * *

"Did you have fun working on your project today, buddy?" Elizabeth asks, eyeing both Cameron and Aiden through the rearview mirror.

"Yeah!" Cameron shouts, briefly startling the younger boy strapped in beside him. "Ewan told me all about the tall buildings in Chicago, and how everyone talks funny in Australia, where he's from. He called it an 'ac-cent'."

Elizabeth chuckled at her son, knowing that he probably drove Ewan crazy with his inquisitiveness.

"He also told me about the tall buildings in Manhattan, and Miami, and Philadelphia, and San Francisco, and Seattle," Cameron rambled. "We should go to Manhattan momma. It's right here in New York. I don't want to go to Seattle though. He said it rains there all the time."

"Maybe we'll make a trip when Aiden gets a little bigger," Elizabeth suggested.

"Yay!" he exclaimed. "And then we can go to New Orleans!"

"New Orleans?" Elizabeth inquires incredulously."Why there?"

"Ewan said it was the favorite place that he lived at," Cameron said as they pulled into their driveway. "Can we have mac and cheese for lunch?" he asks, all thought of travelling already forgotten.

"Sure, sweetie," Elizabeth murmurs absently, carrying a sleeping Aiden into the house. Her mind is conjuring up so many questions at Cameron's previous statement.

* * *

"Make sure you eat your trees," Elizabeth said, referring to the broccoli that Cameron was pushing around on his plate.

"I will," Cameron drawled, rolling his eyes at the vegetable that wouldn't just disappear from his plate.

"Do you remember when you were telling me about all those cool places that Dr. Keenan was telling you about?" she asked.

"Mhmm," he nodded, stabbing a broccoli floret.

"He didn't happen to mention if he actually lived in all of those places, did he?"

"He did! Isn't that so cool?" Cameron exclaimed.

"The coolest," Elizabeth said blankly. She told Ewan she'd table her burning curiosity regarding the details of his life. But that was on the premise of him refusing to answer direct, personal questions. He never said that she couldn't do any digging herself.


End file.
